Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Summer Elegy

Aloysius shuttered into closeness of contact, fearful and ashamed.  His need as some unsavory letter; carried.  A through and through reminder he couldn't let Nicene go, the truth it spoke of illness.  Here, close; he struggled wanting to run after having drawn near.  Hang on deed, like a gun against the head and no nerve against the final cut.

It was the bright folk, Nicene's host, who called Aloysius from retreat.  Still our man feared Nicene as if unswaddled and unbedight.  Thrust to her midst, Aloysius feared his stalking and hunting oft Nicene's lands. He was not her equal, perhaps not even a remade and perfected Aloysius.  Nicene was the great art of immortal hands, malice wholly forgot her design. She greeted Aloysius a friend returned.

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